Words, Wars, And Symphonies
by Laerkstrein
Summary: It doesn't mean a thing.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach_, _or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tite Kubo. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.

**Words, Wars, And Symphonies**

**A/N: **Light lemon.

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><p>He's always been riddled with holes, though not the sort that eyes can see. One can't even feel them, let alone see them, unless one has been looking, studying, for quite some time.<p>

She can only see them because she'd wanted to fill them, somehow, from the beginning. Because she decided to walk into the devil's nest to offer him pity.

It's just another damned waste of time, hers and his. There's nothing she can fix.

Everything is filtered through that bleeding heart of hers, the one wound, one inconsistency, that she can't quite see or repair in herself.

In him, it's the obvious contrast she's so keen on. Retsu's said so on multiple occasions. Blue, dark as night, and a gaze like the golden sun. He thinks it's damned foolish for her to be infatuated by something so temporary and base as appearances. A useless thing, the way women allow themselves to be attracted to the first pleasant-looking man who walks into their all-seeing radar. But she likes to say otherwise, that it's not shallow, not the only thing, and she makes sure he knows it.

Or, at least, Mayuri lets her think that he knows it.

She talks about it all the time, as if she's never seen the midnight sky or set her eyes upon the glimmering rays of the morning sun. Truly, it's sickening, the way she tries to humanize him. He's anything but.

For whatever reason, Retsu refuses to believe that he's content the way he is. That he's one of the few who can find an awkward sort of solace in the throes of misery.

Maybe that's why, some nights, she'd seek out the fresh marks, and, eventually open them again, testing him, curious as to how far that masochistic ecstacy could go. It would lead that sweet spark through his bones, her fingers spreading blood wherever she could reach. When it was said and done, she would take his face in her hands, his tongue snaking out to clean her white skin, her eyes glowing with disapproval.

This could be one of those nights. Or not.

Rather, she leans over his shoulders, naked body pressed into his back, breath against the side of his face, hands moving slowly. Retsu doesn't like it, but there's no other way to say it. The woman is a tease. Still, she doesn't want to hear words. She just wants to make him writhe in midst of a war she won't allow him to win. And she does, fingers sliding through the mask, peeling it away, laying graying streaks over uneven lines where he's sewn himself together again.

Naturally, the darker shade is what gives way first.

The palms of her hands are smooth beneath the sheets, even cold, against him. She's got his insides knotting up again. Her fingers and blunt nails, the way they move, are like knives. He knows damn well what steel feels like beneath his skin.

And, of course, he growls.

The words, the almost symphonic sound of her voice, does nothing anymore. He's grown far too used to it, to the point of absolute boredom. Mayuri doesn't bother to listen to her anymore. They're always the same, her promises that pain will give way to the flow and wash itself away. He's not so naive as she. He knows better, knows that there's no permanent cure for anything, let alone the singularly unpleasant sense that makes its way through the nervous system.

Sound really ought to just leave him the hell alone. He doesn't need to hear her speaking to him, doesn't need to hear the sounds they make together in the dark. And yet, he can still _feel _them, the vibrations, the heartbeats, the overwhelming grazes. Even worse is when he can smell it all, too.

It's all so ancient, the idea that they keep this going. That they keep falling backwards when the world seems to have returned to normal.

She laughs, probably feeling the obvious strain as he tries to push her away.

Even after this, all the obvious discomfort he's thrust into her heart, she still keeps coming back; keeps thinking that there's a perfect end; keeps thinking that there's no such thing as war and mournful symphonies of death; keeps getting that look in her eye, as if she believes that all of this really means something. As if she's captured the heavens in her hands, and let it live on in a jar at her bedside.

What a way for a woman to throw her morality out the window.

And none of it means a damned thing.


End file.
